Just A Sprinkle (Drives You Crazy)
by weregrrl
Summary: Peeves is trying his best to escape the ghosts in school, but what happens when he falls in love with one? Crackfic written for the Teachers' Lounge Crackfest Challenge '13 (a.k.a. The Crackening!); specifically, lightblue-Nymphadora and TellatrixForever. (Peeves/Myrtle)


**A/N: My mind went everywhere writing this piece of crack, so I think I managed that part fairly well. Kudos to the Teachers' Lounge, and respitechristopher for the challenge, and my 'teammates' for actually getting their work in on time (**as opposed to someone we know...**). And now... *drumroll* **

**...I present...**

**...CRACK!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**_Just A Sprinkle (Drives You Crazy)  
_**

**_(Also known as Myrtle, Won't You Marry Me?)_**

"Boring. Boring. Boring!"

Peeves recited the chant as he whizzed above ducking student and teacher heads, alike. They would have to be particularly unstable of mind not to in the presence of Hogwarts' resident poltergeist – after all, hadn't he dropped a vat of kitchen waste on top of little Draco Malfoy's head just last week? The fact that it had turned the screaming boy's face a hideous shade of orange was an unexpected (and hilarious) bonus, but it had the trickster wondering just what the elves were putting in the school food, and if he should stop stealing pasties from the kitchen...

He chuckled at the memory of the last time he had done that. Dumbledore had gotten the shock of his life when his secret pumpkin juice addiction had been discovered – he had even managed to force the Headmaster to sign a contract, stating that there would be no limericks made of his midnight antics, so long as Peeves was given free reign within the west wing every Thursday – no bars withheld. Ah, blackmail!

But today, there was no such joy in his little inhuman heart, for Peeves was facing a fate worse than death itself (assuming he could die; he'd never really tried before), and he was hellbent on escaping it.

"They'll never take me alive!" he screamed, a primitive war-cry ripping through his throat, before turning to a sick, lung-shrivelling cough.

They had caught him! And why was he surrounded by pink smoke?

"Sorry, Peeves!" a voice called from somewhere within the fog, unmistakably Weasley.

"Yeah, sorry mate. Testing gone wrong, you know?" a second voice accompanied the first, almost identical in tone.

It was just the twins.

He liked them – they showed real initiative to go down in history as Hogwarts' second-greatest pranksters (after himself, or course) – but he still couldn't see anything, and the others were surely not far behind him, now. That Nearly Headless Nick had a nose like a bloodhound when it came to trouble within the castle, and was no doubt leading his legion of stiffs this way at that very moment.

Resuming his primal scream, Peeves charged through the cloud, and straight through something else that sent shivers down his spine. Preparing for a full-blown ghost war, of the likes Britain had never before seen, Peeves tensed to float for his life.

"Oh, it's just you," A sullen voice called from behind the poltergeist, "I thought someone had died."

The voice sounded slightly disappointed, and Peeves turned towards it, only to see possibly the most dazzling sight of his entire thousand year existence. Encompassed by just the softest tendrils of remaining smoke, floated the very epitome of beauty. Her face a gaunt, sallow shade of soulless, and unimpressed eyes that angels would envy, Moaning Myrtle was a vision of beauty, to which not even freshly made dungbombs could compare.

"You're going to be late," she snapped, continuing to float in the general direction of the dungeons, "And Nick always makes us stay back when you're late," she supplied gloomily.

Peeves was sure he had something equally snappy to say, but all that came out was, "Would the lady appreciate an escort?"

Myrtle glared at him suspiciously.

"I'd rather dunk my head in a toilet," she replied bitingly, before drifting away faster. And it was clear to him that she would.

_Oh, she's so wonderfully gloomy..._

The trickster sighed. Suddenly, attending the _Bi-Weekly Ghosts and Ghouls' Super-Important Meeting_ didn't seem like such a bad idea.

* * *

From the ground, the Weasley twins watched the infamous poltergeist floating lazily behind the equally infamous lavatory-loving specter. Taking off his gas-mask, Fred turned to his twin.

"You don't think the love potion will have any effect on him, do you?"

George took a moment to think about his answer, before crinkling his nose, "Nah," he replied, "It was just a prototype. Don't even think it works."

Fred nodded his agreement.

"Yeah, nothing to worry about – this is old Peeves, after all," he paused for a moment, before continuing, "By the way, George, have I mentioned how absolutely spiffing you look today?"

"Why, thank you Fred. You look quite attractive yourself. I was just about to-"

Both twins froze at the same time.

"Oh, shit!" they exclaimed simultaneously, before running after the grumpy ghost, and lovestruck poltergeist.

* * *

Myrtle was annoyed - and gloomy - but mostly annoyed. Peeves kept staring at her like he was planning to blow up her bathroom. He mumbled something under his breath and sighed, causing her to get ghostbumps - if he tried to steal all her taps again, she swore she'd yell really loudly and cry for a week. So intense was his devilish stare that she missed half of what Nick was saying, which may have been a blessing, but right now it just unsettled her. When the poltergeist grinned her way, she definitely knew something was very badly wrong.

Just as she was about to glide for her favourite u-bend, Peeves slammed his hands onto the rotting hardwood desk they were all bobbing around, cutting Helena off halfway through her rant on how cheap the Bloody Baron was when it came to Valentine's gifts, and how there should be a minimum standard for all gifts received from now on.

"Myrtle!" he shouted, "Marry me!"

There was a stunned silence for approximately twelve seconds, before all hell broke loose.

"Peeves," the Baron chastised, glad to have his girlfriend off his arse for a few moments, "That wasn't a very nice joke."

Peeves' eyes widened in shock.

"But, I was serious," he claimed. This caused yet another twelve second silence, this time broken by a shrill scream. The source, of course, was Myrtle, and she appeared to be hyperventilating.

"That's sick!"she exclaimed.

Peeves reached for one of her ghostly hands, but his corporeal fingers slid right through it, sending a pleasant chill up his arm.

"That's _love_," he replied in earnest, eyes practically leaking romantic notions. It was too much for Myrtle.

"I AM TWELVE!" she screamed, flinging herself across the room.

"Actually, Myrtle, you're fourteen, plus fifty," Nearly Headless Nick piped in. The ghost girl abruptly cut him off with a glare that left him no doubt she would like to slice through what remained of his neck – had she been alive to do it.

"Well, how am I meant to keep track of these things!" she defended herself, eyes suddenly glossing over, "...I died so...long...ago..."

The girl trailed off, any vigour leaving her voice.

The rest of the ghostly assembly halted in fear. One single thought streaked across their dead minds.

_Oh no..._

Myrtle's bottom lip began to twitch.

"Run!" ordered Nick.

"Duck for cover!" screamed the Bloody Baron.

"Evacuate immediately!" The Grey Lady shrieked.

"GWAAAHHHHH!" cried the Lady of the Lake, sweeping through the wall so swiftly, one could believe an exorcist was on her trail.

The Fat Friar merely fainted on the spot. His bloated body floated serenely upwards.

Suddenly an inhuman screech reverberated around the room. Myrtle was pulling a full-blown fit this time. Pearlescent tears streaked down her face, now screwed up in agony, or possibly glee - it was hard to tell with that girl. She had some downright weird fetishes. Hours went on, and she simply increased in her hysterics, crying and moaning; at one point screaming about her encounter with a toilet bowl that had only been half-flushed.

"I went straight through a poo!" she screamed, hands raised to the heavens, "A poo! It had green flecks in it! Who shits green?! Piccolo?! He's not a wizard! He's not even human! _He's not even real!_"

After this, she resumed wailing at a decibel dogs would find hard to handle. Peeves sighed blissfully. He loved it when she sang opera.

Eventually, the school's professors attempted to enter the room – presumably to halt the hideous sound resonating throughout the school's halls. But it was to no avail. The door was glued shut by phantom hands (or, rather, a phantom's tantrum). Peeves could hear Professor McGonagall's harsh voice ordering people throughout the chaos, and couldn't help but wish it would stop. He wanted only to listen to his beloved's sweet vocals, and was utterly enthralled when the lamps started to flicker with her performance.

"For the love of Merlin, shut up!" Snape yowled from behind the locked door, pounding his fists on the wood, and presumably shooting the Weasley twins dirty glances.

On the other side of the door, Peeves would have found he was right in his assumption. Snape was, indeed, glaring at the troublesome duo. They didn't know why. They had apologised, after all, and the fuss had caused that monster, Umbridge, to go comatose. That had to count for something.

All of a sudden, Myrtle's cries ceased.

"Thank bloody God!" a Hufflepuff commented, hovering just far enough away from the mass of professors shooting him dirty glares to feel safe, "I thought she'd go on all night."

"Thank you for pointing that out, Mr. Collins," Snape huffed, before turning back to the twins, arms crossed.

"Hey, Fred?"

"Yeah, George?"

"Fancy a run?"

"Nothing I'd prefer, actually."

And with that, two identical figures started jogging for the nearest exit, trailed close behind by the majority of the school's population. In all the chaos that ensued, no one heard Myrtle's voice from behind the door whisper, "Yes."

* * *

The next morning, Peeves awoke to a throbbing headache, and the creeping sense that he done something terrible to himself last night. It did not help ease his mind one bit that his teeth tasted of toilet water.

Groggily, he lifted a hand to his head, praying it would soothe the pain...

"Where the hell did this ring come from?!"

* * *

**A/N: ...So...I went under the word limit. Bet you didn't notice that until I brought it up, eh? Anyway, I hope that Ben and Lo (and whomever else might have read this far) thoroughly enjoyed this atrocious piece of literature, and please don't let me do this ever again, because run-ons. *glares***

**But seriously, I hope you all enjoyed reading this short escapade into the insane. **

**Goodnight, God(ess/(e)s) Bless, and as always...**

**Love,**

**Lucy~!**


End file.
